Chapter Text
Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive
—Walter Scott, Marmion
For the Eye altering alters all
—William Blake, “The Mental Traveller”
Asgard, 7 February 1820
Mobius gazed at the portrait, grand and imposing in its ornate gold frame. The Honourable Loki Odinson gazed back, lips curved slightly upwards in an enigmatic half-smile, or perhaps a sneer of disdain—it was difficult to be sure. It must be some trick of the light (or, more precisely, the lack of it) that accounted for the almost mesmerising way his expression seemed to shift, resisting Mobius’ efforts to pin it down.
The portrait was a recent one, so Lady Asgard had informed him, commissioned to hang in the South Drawing Room alongside other grand portraits of the illustrious Odinson family. Instead, it had been unceremoniously relegated to a dark and dusty corridor. Mobius had tactfully refrained from enquiring after the reasons, but the circumstances surrounding his visit to the Earl of Asgard’s country estate led him to believe he could make an educated guess.
The younger of the two Odinson brothers was strikingly handsome, though he bore little resemblance to the golden-haired Lord Vanaheim, whose affable manner and robust good looks had secured his reputation as the most eligible bachelor within a hundred-mile radius. Mobius had glimpsed the godlike Thor earlier that morning, cutting a magnificent figure on horseback as he galloped towards the nearby village of Asgard-on-Wold.
By contrast, Loki Odinson’s features were sharp and austere. His dark hair accentuated the pallor of his complexion, while the firm line of his jaw and the slight upward tilt of his chin spoke of arrogance and defiance, or perhaps merely indifference. He stood straight-backed and inflexible, resplendent in a dark green tailcoat with a subtle velvety sheen, a gold silk waistcoat, and an intricately knotted cravat. A signet ring adorned his left hand, which rested on the back of a chair in an unconvincing display of casual ease.
The overwhelming impression was one of haughty imperiousness, in keeping with what Mobius had learned of the young Mr Odinson’s reputation: silver-tongued and charming when it suited him, but cold at heart.
And yet…
Mobius moved closer, resisting the impulse to run his fingers over the smoothly painted canvas. Loki’s eyes—a breathtakingly vivid shade of green (surely the artist had exaggerated their brightness?)—danced with an irresistible spark of liveliness, almost playfulness, that belied the stiff formality of his pose. Mobius wasn’t prone to flights of fancy, but he couldn’t shake the suspicion that Loki was watching him, amused (and maybe even flattered) by this unremarkable stranger’s studious appraisal. He half-expected the portrait to stir to life, like a statue in a Greek myth, lips parting and pale face flushing with warmth.
“Is it a true likeness?”
Lady Asgard stilled at his side, returning her gaze to the portrait of her youngest son. “That isn’t an easy question to answer, Mr Mobius,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “The artist struggled with his task and was dissatisfied with the result. He requested that the painting be destroyed.”
“That seems a little excessive,” Mobius remarked, taken aback.
“You are acquainted with the artistic temperament, surely?” A playful smile ghosted over Lady Asgard’s face, eyes twinkling. For a moment she reminded Mobius irresistibly of her younger son.
“All the same… I’m no expert, but this painting strikes me as”—beautiful, Mobius’ mind supplied unhelpfully; captivating, bewitching—“very accomplished,” he concluded, taking refuge in the blandest adjective he could think of.
“On that much, at least, we can agree. The technique is faultless, the colours true to nature, the brushwork refined. Yet the artist was right in one respect; it lacks a certain… finality.”
Lady Asgard was famed for speaking in riddles, but Mobius thought he understood what she meant. The portrait, for all its polish and precision, seemed somehow unfinished. He brought his candle as close to the canvas as he dared, studying the skilful way the artist had mimicked the textures of shining silk and starched linen, Loki's softly curling hair and flawless skin, trying to find a rational explanation for why his stomach twisted at the mere thought of the portrait being consigned to the bonfire, tarnished by smoke, paint bubbling and peeling away in the heat of the flames…
“My son’s disposition is… changeable,” said Lady Asgard, after a moment's silence. “Many find him secretive, as reserved as his elder brother is gregarious. Lord Asgard often complains of his coldness, his black moods, and what he perceives as his malice.”
“Do you share your husband’s views?” Mobius asked curiously, hoping the question wouldn’t cause offence. Truth be told, he felt more than a little out of his depth in such a formal setting, surrounded by evidence of the Odinsons’ immense wealth and ancestral privilege. He was quite sure his manners came across as rustic at best.
“My husband possesses many admirable qualities,” Lady Asgard replied, “yet patience, I fear, is not among them. The line between mischief and malice is often indistinct, while shyness may all too readily be mistaken for coldness. It takes an attentive observer to tell the difference.”
“The world prizes certain traits more highly than others,” Mobius ventured, “at least in my experience.”
“Do not mistake me, Mr Mobius,” said Lady Asgard with a teasing smile, “I am under no illusions that my son is as pure as the driven snow. I freely acknowledge that Loki's temperament is not an easy one. He is prone to fits of jealousy and resentment; slow to trust, and slower to forgive should he come to believe that his trust has been misplaced. Yet for those fortunate enough to secure his good favour, the clouds part and the snow melts away. You will find no companion more affectionate, or more loyal.”
“You care about your son very much,” said Mobius gently, before he could think better of it.
“I desire his happiness,” said Lady Asgard at length, “though I fear contentment will not be easily won. It is in Loki's nature to be restless and dissatisfied.”
Mobius returned his attention to the portrait, cupping his hand around the flickering flame to shield it from the draft. Loki’s expression seemed to have subtly changed, or else it was simply Mobius’ perception of it that had altered. The enigmatic curve of his lip, which had at first seemed arrogant, now struck him as mischievous, almost sly, and strangely inviting.
“Come,” Lady Asgard murmured, prompting Mobius to shake himself from his reverie. “My husband is expecting you. It would not do to keep him waiting.”
